


Something Like That

by Catchclaw



Series: White Knuckles [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, POV First Person Dean, Season/Series 02, motel sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Sam makes Dean tremble, Dean is so gonna kick his ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Like That

Tonight, after dinner, all I wanted to do was sleep.

But it was way too early, like not even 10 yet, and I knew if I tried to, crawled under the covers and shut my eyes, I might have slept for an hour or two, but then Sammy would trip over something, or sneeze, or roll over into me and then I'd wake up, be wide awake and pissed. Wouldn't be able to get back to sleep.

And that would suck.

So I stuck it out, propped myself up next to him on the bed. Put my back against the headboard, my head against the wall, and zoned out on whatever Lifetime crap he was watching.

"I'm not watching it, Dean," he huffed. "It's on for noise, ok? Change the damn channel if you want."

"Meh," I said, kicking off my jeans and pulling back the blanket. "'S fine. Ya gotta feed your Tori Spelling thing, man. I understand."

He just rolled his eyes and went back to the laptop. Made a big show of ignoring me when I kicked him from under the covers.

The movie was one I'd seen before, the one where Tori's a cheerleader who gets knifed by some mousey chick with a thing for cucumbers or something.

I kinda liked the mousey one. So I left it on.

Besides, I didn't know where the remote was. Didn't feel like getting up and looking for it, either.

I got to a happy zone-y place, just involved enough so my eyes stayed open, but not so interested that I didn't drift a little. Started floating around in my head, stretching out towards sleep.

Let my head drift down, slide over. Fall on Sam's shoulder.

He sighed. Leaned into me. Kept reading.

The cops were just closing in on the brown-haired girl, and she was just scrabbling under the driver's seat for her big ass knife when Sam said:

"Hey, look at this."

I sat up a little. Craned my neck and tried to see where he was pointing.

"Dean," he said, chuckling at the screen. "Check out the T-rex."

"Huh?"

"This guy," he said, impatient because I wasn't instantly on the same page as him. Whatever. "The one who owned the haunted house? He had a T-rex too, see?"

I opened my eyes--they were getting a little droopy, I guess--and squinted at the screen.

Sure enough: a dude in a floppy hat and shorts, his grin a little wider than that of the giant fake T-rex he was leaning against.

"Weird," I said. "What the hell do dinosaurs have to do with ghosts? Or a giant Stonehenge replica?"

"And art," Sam volunteered, scrolling. "Don't forget his art. The paper said he lost 10 years worth of work in the fire."

"What the hell," I said, letting my eyes close a little.

"You know," he started, letting me hear the hesitation in his voice. "Maybe this is nothing. Maybe this guy has just realized that he sucks as an artist. That he needs to use crazy stuff like this to trick people into looking at his crappy paintings or whatever."

"Maybe," I said. I yawned.

He turned and his shoulder slipped a little under my head."You sleepy?"

"Your attention to detail is epic, Sam," I said, not bothering to open my eyes. Letting myself droop onto his chest.

He made a disbelieving noise and I heard the laptop snap shut.

"Ok, ok," he snorted. "You need your beauty sleep. Obviously."

He touched my face. My hair. Slid up and out of bed. I fell into the pillows, into the space where he'd just been. It was warm. Smelled of cheap beer. Toothpaste. His girly shampoo of the moment.

I heard him drop his clothes and pad back over. Felt him pull back the covers on his side.

He knocked my shoulder. "Dude, scoot over."

I hitched myself over as little as possible. Rolled on my side and give him my back.

He sighed and wormed in beside me. Turned off the light.

Tucked into me, pushed one arm under me and wrapped it across my chest, holding onto my arms. Rested the other on my hip.

And that's where I am, now. Where he is. We've been like this, quiet and wrapped up together, for a while.

And wow. It's nice. Really really nice, actually.

I'm warm and sunny and drifting, grinning at the thought of that guy today, the one who chased us, who called us names and waved his fist. God, the look on his face as we drove off was just freaking perfect. Like he thought we'd sprout horns and eat his kids alive in front of him.

Heh.

It never ceases to amaze me: people are always afraid of the wrong things. They have no idea how much genuinely scary shit there is out here in the world so they construct these like elaborate fantasies of what they should fear. The sorts of ideas or whatever. The kinds of sex.

I'd kinda like to live in a world where other people having sex was all I had to fear. It'd be a hell of a motivator.

"You know," he says, all of a sudden. Breaks the quiet like a twig, his breath soft and hot on my neck. "Maybe we're looking at this whole thing all wrong."

"Hmmm?" I manage, 'cause I don't want to encourage him. Just want him to shut up and keep his hands on me and sleep. Let me sleep, knowing he's right there.

His hand drifts up from my hip. Moves under my shirt.

"Well, he keeps talking about himself as an artist, right? Like in the papers, on the website, and everything?"

He starts moving his hand in big, sleepy circles across my back.

"Uh huh," I say, leaning back into his hand. He doesn't seem to notice.

"What if," he says in that Nancy Drew-is-on-the-case way he has, "what if the art is really the issue here? If he's calling on a spirt or ghost or something to help him create, and so he needs the 'haunted' house or whatever as a cover, as an easy way to explain away any actual supernatural stuff that might show up?"

My brain is starting to get mushy, like an Italian Ice that's sitting in the sun.

"Mmmm," I nod. Arch back into his fingers as they knock my spine.

"Yeah," he says, like he hasn't heard me. "That might explain it. But what kind of demon or spirit or whatever lets you re-up every ten years?" He squeezes my side and I most definitely do not purr. "Maybe he was late on his interest payments or something."

"Hrrrmm," my mouth says without my permission.

He strokes my neck like he's stroking his beard or something. All contemplative like and damn does it feel good and wow if he is not so wrapped up in his own genius that he has no clue what he's doing to me, the self-centered bitch.

Well. If he doesn't know, then I ain't gonna tell him.

"Well," he says, and shit, his mouth is right next to my ear. "That's a place to start at least. When we head over there in the morning."

I bite my lip and nod. Determined not to let him hear how awesome it is to have him touch me like this. Goddamn it.

He shifts behind me and works his hips in right behind mine and oh come on! How is this fair?!

And he. Will not. Shut. Up.

"I read that the place was losing money," he says, pulling his hand from my back, from between us. Lets it fall on my side. Leans all the way into me and that. Is it. I am going to fucking kill him for this. When my brain starts melting out of my ears, I'm gonna make him clean it up.

Still.

He starts moving his fingers up my ribs. Presses his mouth into my neck, his lips moving, his voice getting lost in my skin. Almost.

"So, you know," he breathes. "Could still be some kind of tax thing. Or maybe insurance."

And I'm as still I can possibly be, which, granted, is more like a leaf in the wind or some shit because the bastard is making me shake.

I swear, if he makes me tremble, I am so kicking his ass.

But then his hand shoots down and all of a sudden he has my cock in one hand, my arms locked tight across my chest with the other. And he's laughing, warm and wet in my ear.

"I'm impressed," he drawls. Heavy. "Didn't think you had that much self-control." He works over my ear, shifts his body until it's pretty damn clear that he's been enjoying this conversation.

Like, a lot.

And fuck, I'm gonna have to kick his ass now, because I'm--

"Yeah," he says, and I can hear him feel him grinning. "God, you feel good like this. So good." He shoves his mouth into my neck and starts to stroke me. "And you like this, too, don't you? Hmm?"

He bites me, hard, and I make this awful noise and hey! When did this happen, exactly? Whose idea was this? Who decided that he was in charge?

And then he bites me again and oh god. Who the fuck cares?

I stop fighting it, stop caring about who's winning and losing and let my mouth fall open, buck my hips up and shove myself back at the same time, reach out for all of him at once.

And yeah. He seems to like that.

Tugs my cock and curls his body down into mine. Pushes himself against me, against my ass in a way that makes me curse and flail and rock back into him. Say his name. Say some things that sound like begging but I'm totally sure are not. Totally. But I can't really hear myself think with him growling in ear like this anyway doesn't matter doesn't matter oh--

And I want to kiss him want him to kiss me, for god's sake, but his hands his cock are doing it for me too, doing just fine and I'm sure he'll let me kiss him later, right? after I--

Break open over his hand, fall out between his fingers, get my shirt the sheets hell the pillows sticky and my voice cracks, his name snapping in two inside my mouth.

"God," he's breathing in my ear, "god, Dean, you're so--I can't stand it when you're--"

And I kind of dimly realize that he's kicking his hips into me, his cock working faster against me, and for a second I have this hazy image, this feel of a mouthful of sheet, of my teeth in a pillow, of his hands on my hips, his chest pressed into my back, his cock drawn inside of me and I--

I kind of think he's seeing the same thing, thinking the same thing, the way he's moving, the sounds he's making, and I realize that something like that is probably going to happen someday.

Huh.

Ok.

I wonder what that dude at the overlook would say about that.

'S probably the thing he's most afraid of, huh?

Sammy hisses my name, locks his body around mine, and comes against me, behind me, all over the dry side of the bed.

Flops like a dead fish against my back. A dead fish with a big fucking grin on its face. With its flippers dug into my skin. Its slime all over me.

I tug myself away because I. Am fucking soaked. He makes a hilarious little noise and tries to hold on, but again, dead fish.

"I'm not sleeping in your spunk, Sam," I tell him.

"Heeeaaahh," he slurs, and wow, does he get fucking dumb after he comes.

I get my shirt off, toss my boxers somewhere. Floppy is like rolling around in his wet spot, his mouth stretched like he's just swallowed Joker gas.

"Dude," I say, poking him. "C'mon. Get up for a second so I can pull the blanket up. S'wet."

He opens his eyes and they're all soft and fuzzy and magnetic and I fall towards him like he's true North. Kiss him, long and sweet and deep, and get totally slimed again in the process.

He smiles into my mouth and I can tell he's like a minute away from sleep.

Fine. I give up.

If he wants to wake up crusty or whatever, fine.

He sighs and his whole sticky body relaxes under my hands. I look at his face and ok. I guess it wouldn't be so bad, sleeping in a little damp. I work my way into the mattress, into him. Put my head on his shoulder and listen to him tumble into sleep.

I'll just wake up first. Take the first shower. Use all the hot water and leave him shrieking in the cold, shivering all the way to Foamhenge. That'll teach him.

Yeah.

That'll--


End file.
